One purple flower… Or maybe it is fuchsia, or lavender Or that seventh colour, what is it? Indigo? It is the one we’re never sure of; The last upon the spectrum. It is all that remains. A hemmed in lake of muddy dirt; Not even the rich, black kind. This lonely flower blooming in Everyday muck. Maybe it’s my romantic nature Or a last ditch effort at Schizophrenia, But I think that flower of Negotiable colour Has value. I admire its tenacious grasp And its oft unseen petals Fluttering in this bitter wind. I admire its courage to bloom, So unlike us.